


Sail With Me (Into the Dark)

by Ceris_Malfoy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF!Stiles, Bad Touch, Creepy!Peter, Dream Bestiality, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, Ghost!Peter, Hauntings, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Mating, Pack Dynamics, Possible Stockholm Syndrome, alternate season 2, everyone that's important consents in the end, lydia isn't the one Peter haunts, no kamina
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceris_Malfoy/pseuds/Ceris_Malfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re lying,” he says, begs. “Please tell me you’re lying.”<br/>“Why would I lie, Stiles?” Peter asks calmly. “What would it matter now? I’m <i>dead</i>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sail With Me (Into the Dark)

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to Steeter week. Because I was longing for something creepy and what could possibly be better than Ghost!Peter? So, this is completely AU, starting immediately after Season 1 ends. 
> 
> Title comes from the song "Sail (Unlimited Gravity Remix)" by Awolnation.

“There are some people who live in a dream world, and there are some who face reality; and then there are those who turn one into the other.”

~Douglas H. Everett

 

 

1.

Stiles has always thought of himself as a particularly blessed individual.

Yeah, he’s had a rough time of it, what with a dead mother and a father who hasn’t exactly been a proper role model for sane, healthy parenting behavior since it happened, but Stiles has it honestly much better than most. Yeah, he’s had to grow up a little faster than most – had to learn how to budget the money his dad brought in, how to cook and clean, how to schedule doctors’ appointments, etc. But, compared to someone like, say, Scott, whose father had been a sick, abusive fuckwad, Stiles has it _really_ good.

Sure, not many others acknowledge his awesomeness – or even saw it, to be perfectly honest – but that doesn’t mean he isn’t aware of his own self-worth. He knows he’s intelligent. He knows he’s clever. He knows he’s more loyal than he probably should be, and he knows the lengths and depths he’ll go to for those he’s loyal to. He knows that, even if he isn’t in the same league of sexual magnetism that most people he knows his age are, he’s still pleasant looking enough that realistically, he should have at least _someone_ interested in him.

But he also knows that all his more positive traits also double as detractors to most people.

His wit and charm are hilarious until it’s deliberately being directed in the form of subtle insults and misdirection.

His intelligence and cleverness are useful until they’re unravelling secrets that he has no earthly business getting involved in.

His loyalty is sweet and all, until it gets someone else killed (literally). 

So while he’s not _happy_ about the situation in any way, shape, or form, he’s also not exactly _surprised_ when the one time he gets an interested offer it’s from an insane alpha werewolf who’s about to go on another murder spree using Stiles’ best friend as an unwilling accomplice. And despite the fact that he is quite honestly flattered, and _more_ than a bit interested (because, let’s be honest here – Peter Hale is hot like _burning_ , and that purring tone of voice should be made _illegal_ in all 50 states), there’s still the fact that the man is a murderer and insane and Stiles’ father did his best to raise him right.

So he declines.

And then, later, he sets the former burn-victim on fire. _Again_.

Sometimes his resolve and determination scares even himself.

 

2.

It takes Stiles a very long time to fall to sleep that night, now that he knows _exactly_ what it is that he will face. But he is exhausted, kept awake long past his usual tolerance on yet another research binge, trying desperately to figure out what the hell’s going on with him – because post-traumatic stress disorder is _not_ what’s happening here – and he cannot help but succumb to the rest his body so desperately needs.

And in his sleep he dreams, and in his dreams, Peter comes.

Peter is heavy along his frame as the crazed werewolf moves over him, fully gone into psychotic-alpha-mode, fur clotted and dank with some sort of heated fluid that Stiles does not wish to know the origins of, but – due to the heavy copper scent that fills his nose – heavily suspects is blood. He doesn’t know where the blood has come from, doesn’t know if it’s his or another’s or Peter’s blood, but he knows it is fresh, if old enough to start drying.

Peter’s toothy maw quests greedily after his, breath sour and reeking of decayed flesh, tongue thick and heavy and dripping with copious saliva, and Stiles turns his head away feeling like he might vomit. He can feel the werewolf’s thick cock poking and prodding against his upper thighs as Peter ruts against him. His boxers are still firmly in place around his hips, thank _God_ , but he knows that is no guarantee of any kind of protection. Even if Peter isn’t in possession of sharp, deadly claws, there’s still Peter’s strength to contend with. And normally he’d be completely _still_ in terror, but in his dream his treacherous body _aches_.

Even as he fights against it, there exists a shameful, gritty need to submit to the alpha’s lust. Deep inside of him, some ancient line of DNA wakes, stronger than ever, longing to be claimed, to be taken, to be penetrated. His hips roll, arching upwards, cock straining against the smooth cotton of his boxers, already hard and leaking and so fucking _close_.

And though his boxers remain on, he hears Peter’s growling, triumphant laughter.

 

3.

The funny truth is this: if it were not for Scott McCall, Stiles would have never once stood in Peter Hale’s way.

He would have allowed the man to reclaim his errant beta. He would have stood on the sidelines and cheered as people ( _monsters_ , a part of him hisses) who deserved _worse_ were put down like the mad dogs they’d once accused Peter’s family of being. He would have cheerfully hacked into whomever’s cell-phone GPS and helped the man find Derek.

Stiles has read the reports, has seen the photos, has heard Derek describe how hunters trap werewolves, has heard Peter’s villainous monologue. He knows exactly what Kate Argent and her people did, knows how many of those trapped were human and were _children_ besides, he knows who Kate _used_ for her own purposes. He knows.

He also knows that as for as perturbing as that knowledge is for him to know, he will never _really_ understand what it must have been like for Peter in that hospital, trapped within his own mind and unable to do anything but relive that horrible night over and over and over again. He will never know the kind of mental anguish Peter did at having to relive the screams of pain, or the eternal nightmare of listening to everyone he’d ever loved begging for mercy and help that would never come. Stiles will never understand the dismal knowledge of what it feels like to finally, finally wake up from a coma only to find that the only family he has left has _abandoned_ him, has cut and run and left him to rot.

But he can imagine, he can sympathize. He could have helped. He _would_ have helped.

So, yes, it is fair to say that if it weren’t for Scott, Stiles would have never tried to stop Peter.

Arguably, it can also be said that if it weren’t for Scott, Stiles would have never even had cause to meet Peter Hale in the first place.

 

4.

Sometimes he dreams of ash and fire and pain. He dreams of screams, his own and those belonging to others. Sometimes he dreams of burning, of breathing in ash and smoke, of listening to his entire world dissolve around him. Sometimes he hears two voices above all others. One is screaming a name that doesn’t belong to him, the other just screams.

One is a man’s wife. The other is that man’s two-year-old child.

 

5.

Derek starts stalking him.

Well, to be honest, it’s more like passively watching him. He doesn’t actually approach, doesn’t call, and doesn’t climb into his bedroom like some kind of creeper. Derek’s simply everywhere, _watching_. Listening, too, given what Stiles knows about werewolf senses. Stiles doesn’t like to think about what he must sound like – he’s had thirteen panic attacks in half as many days, and they’re only getting worse. He can’t keep the erratic pulse of his heartbeat down, because he can’t erase the taste/smell/feel of Peter. He can’t get rid of the _sight_ of Peter, which is what is _really_ driving him up the wall – because it’s not just Derek watching him.

Stiles doesn’t believe in ghosts, even after all he’s seen, but he’s starting to think that maybe exceptions could be made. Peter is dead, after all, there’s no reason he should still see him walking around, _looking_ at him. He wonders absently if Derek can see or sense Peter as well, and _that’s_ why Derek’s following him around. He wonders if he _smells_ of Peter, if he bears some kind of hidden mark that says Peter is _haunting_ him.

And then one day just after school lets out, Derek grabs him by the arm, drags him to a deserted classroom, and shoves him against the wall. “Do you want it?” Derek asks, voice low and grave. His intense eyes are watching him, nose flaring slightly, scenting.

Stiles freezes. For a brief moment, he feels ashamed at not realizing that _of_ _course_ as a new alpha Derek would be looking to build his pack. And of course, the older man would ask one of the few teenagers that were already in the know. There is also the added bonus of maybe getting Scott into his pack (willingly) by biting Stiles. But then he is simply irritated. He doesn’t like being manhandled around, especially by werewolves that don’t seem to understand that humans are not built to withstand super-strength, and he _really_ doesn’t like being cornered. He scowls at Derek. “What the _hell_?” he snaps out.

Derek doesn’t even so much as twitch an eyebrow. “Do you want the bite?”

Stiles snorts. He’s not doing this, not now. “Go ask someone else to be your gopher.”

Derek frowns, but does not release his grip. They stare at each other for a long moment.

“My answer is no,” Stiles says, firmly.

Derek’s frown deepens. “You’re lying,” he says. “You should take it. You would make a good beta.”

From the corner of his eyes, Stiles sees Peter, head cocked, blue eyes intense and staring at Derek. There is something almost like rage floating on the man’s features, and when that gaze flickers over to Stiles, Stiles knows, suddenly, unexpectedly, that Peter _wants_ Stiles to say no. His gaze is intense and possessive and _warning_. His heartbeat skyrockets, and he feels inexplicitly nauseous. Peter’s gaze lingers on Derek’s hands where they are gripping (bruising) Stiles’ arms, and the _sound_ that escapes Peter’s throat tells Stiles more than he really wants to know.

He shoves at Derek, panic really and truly settling in. “Let me go!”

Derek releases him, obviously reluctantly, but it is enough. Peter’s gaze calms slightly, and that dangerous growl stops altogether. “Say yes, Stiles,” Derek says. “You _want_ this.”

And Stiles? Stiles has had _enough_. “You don’t get to tell me what I want,” he hisses out. “You’re just another werewolf gone psychotic on his new power.” He sneers. “I _alone_ get to decide what I want, and what I _want_ is _not_ for _you_ , of all people, to be my alpha.”

Derek sneers back at him. “You’re an impatient brat with no survival instinct to speak of, but you _can_ be useful. You have a brain, and you’re amazingly loyal.” His hands twitch, as if thinking about reaching out and grabbing Stiles again. “You’re resourceful and quick-thinking, and you have an interesting approach to looking at things that would be good in a pack. You’d make a good beta.”

Peter is now _stalking_ around them, drifting closer with each revolution, eyes glowing bright, hysteric crimson, his solid, strong hands tipped in deadly claws twitching erratically. Stiles watches for a brief moment. He doesn’t know _exactly_ what the significance of an alpha _asking_ is, or why it’s pissing Peter off so badly that _Derek_ is doing the asking, but he doesn’t need to know the specifics when he is more than intelligent enough to read between the lines. It is enough to know that there is a significance to what Derek is asking, what _Peter_ had asked, and that significance isn’t just a place in a pack.

Derek doesn’t particularly like him, isn’t intrigued by him, doesn’t respect him in any way, shape, or form, and all this bleeds over into his offer. It’s in his tone of voice, it’s in the tense set of his body, it’s in the way Derek is watching him.

Stiles has already received – and declined – a better offer. At least Peter had actually, genuinely, wanted Stiles in his pack. He is so mad he could have cheerfully slapped Derek if he thought for even a small second he could have gotten away with it. “If you think that’s what I am,” he says, teeth bared, “you’re a fool, then, to want me.” He grins, and it’s not until he by chance catches his reflection in the window that he realizes it matches the psychotic grin on Peter’s face perfectly.

Derek snarls, which is the only warning Stiles gets before he is swiftly grabbed, turned, and slammed against the wall, _again_. So _fast_. _Jesus_ , but he hadn’t even had the time to _react_. “You’re the bigger fool, then, to turn down what you should gratefully accept.”

Peter is all-out growling again.

Stiles does a little growling of his own. “Grateful?” he spits out against the wall. “I should be _grateful_? For what, Derek? Being _assaulted_? You think _that_ is going to convince me to give you any more power over me than you already have?” He pushes against the wall, not surprised when he doesn’t move even an inch. _Goddamn_ werewolf strength. “If I wanted a psychotic alpha, Derek, I would have gotten down on hands and knees and _begged_ your uncle for the bite.”

Derek releases him so fast Stiles might as well have been on fire. Stiles breathes deeply before turning to face his assaulter. He is dimly aware of Peter slinking up beside him, tracing claws delicately over his neck, lingering on the heavy pulse. There is heavy breathing in his ear and a shockingly wet tongue tracing over his earlobe. “ _You’ll beg me yet_ ,” the man whispers teasingly in his ear. He shudders, and tries not to panic.

“You don’t even have the common sense to know what it is I’m offering, do you?” Derek finally asks.

Derek is staring right at him, and he doesn’t see Peter. Doesn’t see the way the man’s hands are trailing down Stiles’ body, one hand clutching his hip and digging in possessively, the other trailing teasingly against Stiles’ ass. Stiles finally has the knowledge that this is all in his own head. _He_ is imagining Peter here. _He_ is imagining the man touching him like this, claiming him publically in front of his own nephew. _He_ is imagining the heavy, thrumming purr that escapes Peter’s throat when Stiles says, bitterly, “At least I have the sense to reject it from an alpha as weak as _you_.”

The approving nip his neck receives when Derek storms out both terrifies him and pacifies him at the same time.

“ _Such a good boy_ ,” Peter says.

 

6.

Stiles jolts out of sleep, his heart beating machine-gun rapid within his chest. In the dark room around him, the shadows take on a looming, hostile presence, and he’s less than a breath away from screaming.

Only he can’t scream. He can’t even _breathe_. His chest feels like it’s constricting him, like some giant pair of hands are squeezing him so tight that his lungs can’t find any room to do anything else but deflate. His eyes widen, and his hands try and claw his chest open. He knows what’s going on, how could he not? Panic attacks, after all, are an old friend, even if he hasn’t had one in years. But this is worse, almost, because there’s nothing to panic over.

It is just a dream. Only just a dream.

Peter’s dead. Stiles knows he’s dead, because Stiles is the one who set the man on fire, that weakened Peter enough for Derek to slice open the man’s throat. Stiles knows Peter is dead, because he’s the one who helped Derek burry the reeking corpse beneath the Hale house.

Peter is dead.

It is just a dream.

Eventually his lungs unconstrict, and he’s able to breathe. He draws in each breath like it is the sweetest thing in his world, and right now, it really is.

He slides off his bed, wincing at the sharp feel of the cold floor against his bare feet. He feels ill, like the food he ate for supper earlier is literally writhing within his stomach. Struggling desperately against the violent urge to vomit everywhere, he fumbles his way to the bathroom, feeling dirty and unclean despite that he’d taken a shower not even 4 hours ago.

He shudders with a bone-deep cold that won’t go away no matter how hot he makes his shower. He shudders and desperately tries not to think about anything.

Peter is dead.

He’s _dead_.

 

7.

Derek goes on a biting spree, turning three teens that would never have been Stiles’ first pick of choice for a stable pack. Peter spends a long time laughing at what he calls the ‘pups’, and how so pathetically out of control they are.

“ _They’re not a pack_ ,” Peter says to him casually one night.

Stiles has just finished his physics homework when Peter opens his mouth. He freezes. Peter has spoken to him before, but his statements always been the sort of creeper statements one might hear dropped from your average pedo’s lips. The kind of creepy statements that his imagination might throw in for added kicks. He’s been so sure that he is hallucinating, because no one else can see Peter, or hear him, or interact with him. It’s only Stiles that can see him, feel him, talk with him (not that there’s any talking going on).

“What do you mean?” he asks, hesitantly, unsure of whether or not this means he’s going even crazier.

Peter smiles at him from where he’s lounging languidly on Stiles’ bed. “ _I mean, Derek and his little pups? They’re not pack. They will **never**_ _be pack, not as long as it’s Derek in charge_.”

Stiles has kind of figured out that Derek as an alpha is some sort of sick cosmic joke. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “ _Stiles, why do you think alphas are so driven to create a pack?_ ”

“Power?” he asks drily.

“ _Try again_.”

Stiles shoots a look at Peter, who is smiling amiably back at him. “Strength in numbers?”

“ _Of a sort. Again, Stiles._ **_Think_**. _What would drive a power-mad alpha out to create a pack? What does a newly bitten werewolf seek out the_ **_most_**?”

And, of _course_. “Stability,” he breathes, and his heart feels like it just _stops_. Because if that’s true…. If that’s _true_ … “You never did heal mentally, did you?”

“ _No_ ,” Peter agrees. “ _The only one I bit rejected me thoroughly because he found a far more stable pack in two humans, only one of which knew what he was. My only remaining kin, who should have been bound to me through blood, was just as unstable as I was_.” Peter shrugs, amiable smile still firm on his face.

And Stiles suddenly feels very, very guilty. Because he knows that sometimes sanity comes in short supply when things go horribly wrong – he has a shining example of that in the first two years of his life after his mother died. He could no more blame Peter for losing his mind and going on a rampage than he could blame his father for diving into the bottom of a bottle of whisky every night for two years. Everyone reacted differently to grief and rage, and what Peter did was in no way inexcusable, but Stiles had always thought Peter was fully rational when he did it.

“You’re lying,” he says, begs. “ _Please_ tell me you’re lying.”

“ _Why would I lie, Stiles?_ ” Peter asks calmly. “ _What would it matter now? I’m **dead**.”_

And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? Peter is dead. Peter is dead because Stiles set the man on fire. Stiles set a former burn victim on fire, _again_ , because Stiles was just a human and it was the only way he could see to weaken the insane alpha enough for someone to end him. Peter’s dead, and Stiles helped kill him, and Stiles is slowly going insane from guilt.

That’s what this is.

That’s _all_ this is.

“ _Oh, my poor boy_ ,” Peter says, amusement and sympathy both intertwined in his tone. “ _Don’t feel so bad. Things will get better soon_.”

“Better?” Stiles asks incredibly. “I _set you on fire._ How does that get better?”

Peter’s smile never leaves his face, though something about it goes cold, and his eyes, so intensely blue, go eerily blank, like no one’s home. “ _Oh, don’t worry. I **remember**. And you can be sure you and I will have a very long **talk** about that soon_.”

Stiles’ mouth goes dry. “But not now?”

“ _No_ ,” Peter says. “ _Not now. Now, I think, it’s time for growing boys to go to sleep.”_ He’s still smiling that coldly empty smile at Stiles, even as he pets the spot on the bed beside him.

And what choice does Stiles have? Even if this is nothing but a hallucination (and he’s beginning to have some serious doubts about that), Peter has more than enough strength to _force_ him into the bed. Stiles may be a naturally combative sort of person, but even he knows how to swallow his false pride and choose his battles wisely. He gingerly climbs onto the bed with Peter, lying stiff as a board next to the older man’s solid length, unable to relax.

Peter _laughs_ at him. With a strong grip, Peter seizes Stiles and maneuvers him onto his side, even as Peter slides over just enough so that Peter is spooning Stiles, clutching Stiles to him tightly like Stiles is nothing more than a conveniently large teddy bear. “ _Goodnight, my pretty boy,_ ” is the last thing Peter says to him that night.

He doesn’t fall asleep for a long, long time.

 

8.

School is its own special brand of hell.

Now that the werewolf crisis is over, things have settled back down into some semblance of their usual patterns. And this might be okay, if the only differences didn’t include the fact that Stiles is unbearably alone, and _definitely_ going crazy.

Scott is too focused on Allison to notice anything wrong with him, and Stiles has many acquaintances, but no real other friends that are close enough to recognize when his sarcasm and infamously catty wit gets more defensive and less funny. There’s no one else to notice when Stiles starts blanking out during lectures, only to come back to himself and find his notebook filled with pages upon pages of diagrams and notes written in a language he doesn’t even recognize. There’s no one to notice when Stiles starts talking back to Peter, carrying on conversations that are in no way appropriate for a sixteen-year-old body to be having with a man of Peter’s age, dead or not.

There’s no one to notice when bruises and hickies start showing up on his body. Stiles doesn’t know if no one notices because they’re not really there and just something else he’s imagining, or if no one notices simply because _no one notices_.

The only time anyone notices something wrong is when he inadvertently says something to piss Peter off and desks start flying around the room like someone is picking them up and throwing them against the wall, and someone is, even if no one else can see Peter. Students scatter, no one paying attention to Stiles, who has backed into the corner of the classroom. And then Stiles is cowering back from Peter’s looming, angry figure, eyes squeezed tight, apologizing over and over again, even though he doesn’t understand what it is he’s said wrong.

Eventually he becomes aware of the fact that Peter is crouched before him, studying him with a strange half-smile on his face. He meets Peter’s gaze warily, shoulders hunched. “ _It’s alright, my pretty boy_ ,” Peter eventually says. The man reaches out and pulls him in, cuddling Stiles’ trembling body. One hand settles like a band of ownership across the back of his neck, the other sliding under Stiles’ shirt and playing with one hip. “ _You won’t say such things again, will you?_ ” Peter nuzzles against the side of his neck, licking a broad stripe against his throat. “ _You’re **mine** , Stiles. No one is going to take you from me._”

And maybe that shouldn’t be so comforting, but all Stiles can do is lump against Peter and sob in relief.

 

9.

They talk. Quite a lot, actually.

Stiles is naturally gifted at oration – give him a topic and he’ll run it into the ground for _hours_ , alongside anything and everything even remotely related to it. Peter, while less enthusiastic about matters, is no less gifted.

So, they talk.

They talk about meaningless things, at first. DC vs. Marvel, favorite foods and seasons, which sport is better – basketball or lacrosse – stupid, inconsequential, _safe_ things that nonetheless reveal to Stiles that Peter is no more a hallucination than Stiles is. Peter can’t be, because there is too much about Peter that Stiles can’t even begin to guess, let alone infer with his own imagination. He begins to ask things, more personal, less safe. He always leads his questions by offering his own answers to the same questions first, because he is a firm believer in quid pro quo, especially with an alpha werewolf that may or may not be physically capable of hurting him in his current form.

And slowly, but surely, they open up to each other. They talk about their families, about the good times and the horrible times. They talk about loss and suffering, about how Peter missed all those years since the fire, about how Stiles never really got a true childhood because he was too busy taking care of his father. They talk about death, and the act of murder.

They also have a very long, pointed talk about setting Peter on fire, and the _consequences_ that will arise if it _ever_ happens again. Not that it will, because Peter is already dead, right? (Stiles doesn’t like the strange little smile Peter wears when he asks this.)

They never, ever talk about what is happening, or _why_ it’s happening. They never, ever discuss the future.

 

9.

It is night again, and again, Stiles dreams.

And in his dream, Peter groans over him, fully human, perfectly formed. The older man bites at his lips and trails his hands against Stiles’ naked chest, and he wants. Oh, how he _wants_. He wants everything, especially the werewolf’s cock, hard and heavy against his still-clothed thigh. He thinks vaguely of Stockholm Syndrome, of psychological responses to prolonged contact with an abuser, but he thinks most of Peter. Peter’s sinful voice and all-too tempting touch; Peter’s stupidly perfect body and the all-too controlled strength that could easily rend his fragile human body into pieces, and yet is so _gentle_ ….

He just wants to give in, give Peter everything and anything he can. And it hits him that this isn’t just teenage lust or some strange dream-manipulation. He genuinely wants this, wants Peter to have him if that’s what the older man wants. This moment of clarity frightens him, has him clenching his teeth and fighting against the dream, and he manages to force himself awake.

There he lays in the near-silence of the night, listening to the sounds of the night as they filtered in through the open-window, struggling to ignore the shadow lounging in the corner of his room watching him with deep glowing red eyes, struggling to not hear the triumphant, mocking laughter ringing in his ears.

He cries.

 

10.

He researches, because that’s what he does. He is not a naturally gifted genius like Lydia, capable of understanding things as quickly as another might flick a light-switch on or off. But he doesn’t need to be. He is intelligent in his own right, and his critical and tactical thinking is more geared for the supernatural than Lydia’s ever will be.

He starts the first time he comes to himself in Finstock’s class, hands busy sketching what looks like some esoteric mathematical formula in a decidedly spiral pattern. Each symbol is completely foreign, each resembling some sort of squiggly line that others might take as just bored doodling, but Stiles instinctively knows is something completely different. The drawings only get more detailed, more concise, and he doesn’t realize when exactly it is that he’s also started drawing other things.

Things like the space where he helped Derek bury Peter’s body. Things like Derek lying next to Peter, bleeding. Things like Nordic runes carved in precise patterns on the edges of mirrors. Things like lines upon lines of Ancient Latin written in ever-moving spirals.

He’s not stupid. He puts things together pretty quickly. He knows, now, that what he’s been experiencing is not a series of hallucinations. Peter isn’t just some bizarre conjuration of his imagination. The man is truly there, beside him and inside him at all times, an entity that has consumed him so wholly Stiles doesn’t know how he will ever be free again, if he even wants to be.

The ritual Peter had originally wanted him to use had only been half-remembered and half-understood. Peter had only studied it in passing when he had been little more than Stiles’ age, and time and suffering and death has erased many details. Stiles doesn’t like to think about it, but occasionally he wonders what might have happened had Peter chosen someone else to haunt – if haunting is even what this really is. (He wonders, sometimes, what is binding the two of them together, what it is that is anchoring Peter to Stiles when Peter’s never once drawn Stiles’ blood, even by accident.) He thinks, every so often, about Lydia, and how she might have dealt with Peter, how she might have dealt with the psychotic breaks and the lost time, how she might have dealt with the fact that a dead man was _touching_ her.

And then he gets irrationally _angry_ , and it will take him _hours_ to calm down enough to listen to the reasonable thoughts his brain is trying to feed him. 

So, he researches. He learns the original ritual inside and out, learns the improvised versions that appear all over the internet (if one knows how to look), learns the languages and the symbols and the patterns and the symbolism behind them all. He learns enough to start diagraming his own version of the ritual, specifically tailored to his wants and Peter’s needs. He learns enough to know that although Derek is the key, he’s going to need more.

He learns enough to be dangerous.

 

11.

“Why me?” he asks Peter one day. He’s sketching yet another rune design, trying to determine in which order they would be best placed to do provide the maximum benefit at the least cost. Runes were tricky to work with on the best of days – with them, all things had to be in balance, which is hard enough to manage when just taking the temperamental things into account on their own. Once you started adding in other things, like moon magic, Ancient Latin incantations, etc., things like balance suddenly became a delicate tightrope act over an ocean of acid.

Peter doesn’t say anything for a long moment from his spot on the floor of Stiles’ room. “ _Who else would it be?_ ” he finally asks, sounding honestly curious.

“I don’t know,” Stiles replies. “I don’t even understand what it is you really _want_ me for. I’m just a sixteen-year-old-kid. I’m technically not even _legal_ for any of the shit you make me dream about.”

“ _Make?_ ”Peter asks, amused.

“Well, you _did_ , at first,” Stiles admits. “It’s mutual now, I pretty sure, but it could also be a pretty strong case of teenage hormones and Stockholm Syndrome, so.” He shrugs. “But seriously, explain? Please? I’d like to know what it is I’m getting into.”

Peter hums thoughtfully. “ _I explained the purpose of pack building to you, yes?_ ”

“Stability,” Stiles answers promptly. “An alpha builds a pack not just because theirs strength in numbers, or because his or her own power base grows with each able member – though it does – but because the more there are in his or her pack, the less likely the alpha is to go insane. Each member acts as an emergency anchor in the event that the alpha’s anchor is destroyed or taken away, tying the alpha into the scents of home and family and _mine_.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Peter says. “ _What are the positions in the pack?_ ”

Stiles thinks about this, recalling long conversations. “Alpha is the top position. He or she is the primary defender and attacker of the group. It is his or her job to oversee that the rest of the pack is suitably attired, fed, and housed, that they are, if not happy, at least content. Betas come next, and there should at least be three at any given time. The head beta is the official second in command, and if the alpha is for any reason unable to see to the pack, it is the job of the head beta to see to things until the alpha can take over. It is also the job of the head beta to offer differences in opinion to the alpha, respectfully of course. The other two reinforce the head beta. Deltas are basically the pups of the pack, too new to werewolf-dom to be much good to anyone, but loved anyway because they are pack and they will learn. gammas are what in a normal wolf-pack would be called omegas. They exist on the outskirts of the pack, not quite trusted and never tolerated around the pups. They usually go feral or turn to omega status at the first opportunity.”

“ _Good, Stiles. Now, hypothetically, if I bit you now, where do you think you’d stand in the hierarchy?_ ”

This stumps Stiles. “With just the two of us? I’d say head-beta, once I got my control down. I know too much to be considered a Delta, and I’ve got too much stubborn pride to even consider allowing anyone – much less you – force me into a position as a Gamma.”

“ _And if there were others?_ ” Peter asks. “ _Such as, say, Derek’s pack and Scott?_ ” Peter gets off the floor, an easy, fluid movement that Stiles watches with no little admiration. He stretches briefly, grimacing at the sound of his back popping in several places.

“Isaac and Erica are definitely Deltas, Boyd I think is capable enough to be considered a beta, but not the head one. Scott, if he could get over having you as an alpha would make a good head-beta. He’s almost your complete opposite, so the compromises that would have to be made between the two of you could only be for the benefit of the pack. Derek. I don’t know. He has some serious issues to work out before I’d allow him to be in beta rank, but he’s too powerful and controlled for delta, and he’d never allow the rest of us to consider him gamma.”

Peter walks over to him, pausing just far enough away that Stiles would have to move to touch him. “ _And where do you sit in this situation_?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says honestly. “Given that Scott has almost always followed my lead, I’d still say head beta, even if Scott would be better for the position than I, considering that I’m a little _too_ pragmatic to be a good foil for you.”

“ _Stiles, you’re missing a complete step in the hierarchy._ ” Peter is standing behind his chair now, looking down at him, smiling wolfishly at him.

Stiles meets his gaze, confused. “I am?”

Peter bends down to crouch beside him, and dips his head, nuzzling against Stiles’ neck. Stiles immediately moves his head over to give the older man more room, allowing the werewolf to scent him. “ ** _Mate_** ,” Peter whispers against his ear, hands settling on his shoulders and squeezing lightly.

Stiles’ breath catches. “Mate?” he repeats.

“Hmmm,” Peter purrs. He licks a broad stripe against Stiles’ neck before nibbling gently against Stiles’ earlobe, and it says a lot about Stiles’ life that he doesn’t even remotely feel disgusted at the feel of Peter’s saliva congealing on his neck.

“ _Below the alpha_ ,” Peter says. “ _Above the head-beta. Equal in most things, structure-wise_.” Peter’s hands leave his shoulders and travel down Stiles’ arms, one slipping across Stiles’ chest and up and lingering just above the heart, close to Stile’s neck, the other grabbing Stiles’ lax hand and winding their fingers tightly together. “ _The most important figure in an alpha’s pack, because even without a pack, if an alpha has a mate, he or she is sane_.”

Peter presses a small kiss just over Stiles’ rapid pulse-point. “ _The alpha’s mate is almost **always** his or her anchor, Stiles._ ”

 

12.

He is back in the school, running for his life, Scott beside him. They are both terrified, and Stiles knows this is a dream.

Not a memory, because in his dream, Scott is bleeding black ooze from his side where Peter had bit him. His body is rejecting the bite, or rather, the bite is rejecting Scott in that twisted way that all things have some sort of perverse relevance in dreams. Peter is rejecting Scott now as thoroughly as Scott has tried to reject Peter, and unlike reality, Stiles is powerless to help his friend this time.

Because he’s already Peter’s. And he knows it; _welcomes_ it even.

There’s an echoing, triumphant roar, and he shoves Scott’s rapidly dying body through a door and into the gym. He barely gets another three steps before a heavy weight is slamming against him, knocking him off his feet and onto his stomach. Scott goes down with him, rolling listlessly onto his back, gasping for breath, clawing at his own throat feebly. Stiles wants to help, wants to grab the inhaler he _knows_ is in his pocket, but he gets no further than his knees before there’s a firm, growling weight settling against his back.

And inexplicably, he’s naked. Peter is in his alpha form, all hard muscle and fur and deadly claws, and he freezes as the werewolf’s maw settles on the back of his neck, teeth a prickling reminder that moving is not in his best interests. He whines, low in his throat, struggling to stay still, even when he feels Peter’s cock grow hot and heavy against the back of his thighs. And he’s _moaning_ , begging brokenly for Peter to fuck him, to claim him, to own him and possess him in front of the betrayed, unforgiving eyes of his dying best friend and pseudo-brother.

And he knows this is a dream, it _has_ to be a dream, because there is no way he’d be able to take that monstrous cock so well with no lube and no preparation. There is no way he’d _enjoy_ the feeling of Peter’s claws digging ragged furrows into his skin as the werewolf _fucks_ him. There is no way he’d be on his hands and knees in front of his dying best friend begging for _more_.

But he _does_ , and he _is_ , and it feels so much like coming home.

 

13.

He wakes up one night naked and dirty, the formerly clean white sheets streaked with mud and blood. He stares for a long time before turning his gaze to Peter, who is smiling at him. “Dare I ask?” he asks quietly.

Peter’s smile broadens. “ _Things are almost ready_.” The man turns to the window, studying the moon. “ _It’s almost the Worm Moon_ ,” he says, almost wistfully. He glances back over his shoulders. “ _Are you ready?”_

Stiles doesn’t say anything at first. He gets off his bed and walks over to Peter, no longer even a bit body-shy next to this man, his alpha. “Almost. There are a few more points I need to work out about the positioning of the mirrors, but I’ll have it in time.”

He feels Peter’s pleasure like a physical caress, even though the man doesn’t touch him. “ _Such a good boy_ ,” is all he says in response.

 

14.

It’s not hard, realistically.

Lydia’s birthday falls on the Worm Moon, and all it takes to get Derek’s current pack of rebellious were-pups there is the promise of a good time. Derek doesn’t have the control over them he’d really like to have, which makes Stiles gladder than ever that he hadn’t accepted the offer from such a weak alpha. Derek tells them to show up at the Hale house to be chained up for the full moon, they go to a party instead.

It’s too fucking amusingly easy.

All Stiles has to do is lace the punch with a mild dose of wolfsbane, and suddenly he has four weakened, delirious werewolves retching on Lydia’s polished wooden floors. Being the responsible person he is, son of a Sheriff and all, he offers to drive them home, and no one even looks twice. Not even Allison, who should really know the effects of wolfsbane on werewolves by now.

He doesn’t take them home. He takes them to the Hale house. He just barely manages to get the powdered wolfsbane out of his pocket before Derek is dragging him out of his jeep, roaring in his face, obviously catching the reek of wolfsbane all over him. Stiles doesn’t hesitate to blow the powder in Derek’s face. He doesn’t hesitate to push Derek off of him when the werewolf howls his agony as his face starts to burn. He doesn’t hesitate to take the syringe out of his jacket and slam it home into Derek’s neck.

It won’t hurt him, much, but it will help Stiles keep the alpha docile.

He leaves all five werewolves where they are and goes into the house. He takes his time, breaking open the floor Peter is buried beneath, carving the appropriate symbols into the edges of his broken grave, nicking his fingers to trail bloody symbols over Peter’s rotting flesh, muttering carefully researched phrases over and over again until the beginning stage is done.

He goes out to his jeep and grabs the box of mirrors, not sparing a glance for Derek who is frozen on the ground and watching him, a mix of terrible anger and deep fear in his alpha-red eyes.

He arranges the specially prepared mirrors carefully. He doesn’t want the light of the worm moon to be even a millimeter off, even if it would have no true adverse effect on the ritual. He makes sure each mirror is properly reflective, properly carved, properly oiled.

He goes back out and starts dragging in the werewolves. Erica and Boyd are set up nearest to the bottom of Peter’s grave, placed kneeling in positions of supplication, hands carefully laced together and outstretched, as if begging. He nicks another finger and draws bloody runes on their hands and foreheads, humming absently under his breath as he worked. Isaac he places to the far right of Peter, positioning him exactly the same as Erica and Boyd.

They never knew Peter, didn’t know that Derek’s position as alpha had been stolen, didn’t understand what they had done by accepting Derek as their rightful alpha. They would get off lightly.

Scott is placed at the head of Peter’s grave on his back, belly and neck bared, legs dangling down into the open grave. Stiles again draws bloody runes on his friend’s skin, this time a slightly different set. Peter’s first bitten had been Scott, and as such Scott should have been Peter’s second, his primary defense against loosing himself in the power of being an alpha. But Scott kept rejecting Peter, partly because of Stiles, but mostly because Scott doesn’t want this, has never wanted this. Stiles, who _finally_ understands exactly how much of Peter’s insanity was due to being pack-less, can’t quite forgive this. But Scott will earn forgiveness, will earn his place within Peter’s pack.

It is Derek he drags in last, placing him closest to the grave, practically leaning in it. He arranges Derek’s face so that the older man can see his uncle clearly, rotting in the whole they buried him in. He wants Derek to see the burnt, decaying flesh. He wants Derek to smell the scent of ash, betrayal, and cooked meat. He pulls out a knife and slices at Derek’s shirt, exposing his belly all the way up to his throat, and _carves_ a third set of runes on his open canvas.

And then he reaches into the grave and gently, carefully grabs Peter’s hand and places it on the center of Derek’s bleeding chest, right over the werewolf’s heart.

He knots a rope of woven wolfsbane around them, trapping them all together, stands up, and gently tips a mirror.

Light floods though the room, and immediately afterwards the room fills with a heavy pressure and the cloying stench of ozone and damp decay. All five living werewolves scream in unison as the bloody runes on their flesh sizzle and burn; Stiles breathes a quiet whine as his body convulses, pleasure riding through his veins like Peter’s somehow managing to touch him everywhere at once. It builds, power and pleasure and pain reaching an apex unlike anything Stiles has ever known. His blood is the binding agent used between the three different variations of the same ritual he’s combined into one, and he is both the conduit and the power that is guiding the ritual. He only needs to hold out for a short time, thankfully, because he’s never known power like this, never known pleasure and pain so intertwined that it is impossible to tell which is which. It is with a piercing scream that is echoed from the throats of five werewolves that he finally allows the power to explode out of him in what has to be the most intense orgasm of his life. Stiles becomes aware of everything around him not much later, panting on the ground where’s he’s collapsed, jeans sticky with release, heart threatening to explode out of his chest.

And then the corpse in the whole in the ground is moving, clawing his way out of the grave, and the puppies are whining and twitching in their locked circles of wolfsbane ropes.

Stiles knows that they instinctively hate and fear Peter. Erica and Isaac and Boyd have never known anything other Derek, and so they take their cues from Derek, who is their alpha, and Scott, who is not Derek’s but is stable enough to reject the power of an alpha. And Scott is shrinking back, whining low in his throat, deliberately keeping throat and belly bared, for once understanding he is in no position to defend himself from Peter. Derek, on the other hand, is growling at Peter.

_Stupid_. Derek’s paralysis won’t wear off fully for another hour or so, and by that time, he will no longer have the power he stole from Peter.

Peter flexes his claws, and smiles at the werewolves around him, and there is nothing happy in that smile. There is nothing but bitterness and anger, violence and borderline-hatred. With a low growl, Peter reaches out moves, tearing and slashing at the others. They try and fight, at first, but it is hard to fight a man who is so much more experienced, so much stronger, so much more _hating_. It is hard to fight when all they want to do is curl into a ball and plead for mercy.

And Peter smiles, eyes aglow with merry pleasure as he rends Derek’s pack’s flesh and snaps their bones, punishing them for accepting an unfit alpha, hurting them simply because he could and they were too weak to stop him. He is especially harsh with Scott, who at least never once tries to raise a hand against the werewolf who had turned him, if he even can. Derek’s punishment is even worse, and Stiles knows that it is only because the alpha power is still being drained from Derek that Peter is allowing his nephew to live.

This Peter is still pack-less, still insane. Stiles can’t help but think he is _glorious_. Unfettered and free, completely inhumane and all the more remarkable for it.

When he is at last finished, he steps back, head cocked, admiring the view. All five werewolves are huddled together, sobbing, begging for mercy – even Derek. They are covered in wounds that aren’t healing as well as they would had it been any other werewolf to do the damage, considering Peter isn’t actually alpha just yet.

“Get up,” Peter orders, still smiling.

Quickly they move, stumbling to their feet, Boyd and Scott picking up Derek and holding him between them. They all looked down at the floor, bleeding and whimpering and crying.

Stiles thinks it is all strangely beautiful.

“Stiles,” Peter says, holding out one clawed hand.

Stiles never hesitates. He moves the wolfsbane ropes, ruining the circle that keeps them all trapped within, and places his hand in Peter’s. He allows the man to draw him in close, too close for any sense of propriety, especially considering Peter is very, very naked. He willingly bares his neck to the man, keeping his eyes purposely avoided, and doesn’t tense when he feels Peter’s nose and teeth against his throat.

He hums contently when Peter nuzzles just behind his ear. “Such a good boy,” Peter says. “ _My_ good boy.”

Stiles smiles. “Yours,” he agrees amiably. He glances at the pack, taking in their horrified gazes as they watched silent and frightened. He feels neither shame nor guilt for what he has done, for what he will do. Instead, the human heart within him that has been expertly stripped of anything that did not revolve around Peter and Peter’s needs burns bright with the desire for _more_.

 

15.

Peter fucks him for the first time in truth right then and there. He fucks him hard and fast and dirty, possessive and obsessive and so damn good. He does it in front of the pack, first in human form, and then, once the power-transfer is finally done, he does it in his alpha-form. Stiles doesn’t care that his first time (technically) isn’t soft or sweet or gentle or even private. He doesn’t care that he’s technically fucking an animal, because being knotted? Fucking _amazing_.  

He is lost in a haze of pleasure and Peter and _god more please_. When Peter reaches down and grabs his wrist with claws that can’t help but prick Stiles’ fragile flesh and holds the appendage to his monstrous mouth, Stiles is just coherent enough to meet Derek’s disbelieving gaze when he begs, “Yes, _please_ , Peter, god _please_.”

Peter bites.

 

15.

_“Will you love me?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Will you keep me?”_

_“ **Forever**.”_


End file.
